The White Pearl Read Online Free Page B

murmur ofNigel’s voice, reading a bedtime story to Teddy. He had a good voice, clear and even-toned, that was unfailingly gentle with
     his son. He never raised it, not even with his field coolies when he was angry about something, and its calm control inspired
     confidence. Just occasionally she found herself wishing that the calmness would slip, that the control would crack and lay
     bare whatever it was that was hidden underneath.
    The door to the bedroom stood half open and she paused. Nigel and Teddy were sitting on the edge of the bed alongside each
     other, with her son’s bristle-haired terrier, Pippin, curled up on his knee. The sight of them gave her a sense of touching
     her feet on solid ground after the shipwreck that had been her day. She loved their closeness, the way Teddy’s slight frame
     in his striped pyjamas leaned against his father, unconscious of how he nodded his head whenever his father did, and drew
     his eyebrows down in imitation of Nigel when the words grew serious. On a chair beside the bed sat Teddy’s
amah
, Chala, his nurse. She was a tiny little Malay woman, dressed in a patterned tunic over a long straight skirt, her hands
     clasped under her chin as she listened, entranced by the story.
    ‘
Teddy shouted to the house
,’ Nigel read with animation, ‘“
Oh, look here! Our mongoose is killing a snake.
”’
    The words made Connie smile. This was Teddy’s favourite story, Rudyard Kipling’s tale about the boy called Teddy and Rikki-tikki-tavi,
     a mongoose in India. She lingered in the corridor outside till the end.
    ‘
He kept that garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its
     head inside the walls
,’ Nigel finished with a flourish.
    On silent feet, she made her way to the heavy door of Burmese teak at the end of the corridor.
    Hold my hand.
    Connie’s unspoken words fell into the gap that cut a chasm along the centre of the white sheet of finest Egyptian cotton,
     between her side of the bed and her husband’s side.
    Hold my hand. I’m here and I need you. Can’t you hear me?
    The night was sultry, the weight of air pressing down on her skin, her scalp tight and aching as she lay stretched out naked
     under the muslin tent of the mosquito net. She couldn’t make out its milky shape aboveher in the darkness but she knew it was there, hanging like a shroud around her marriage. Beside her, Nigel was lying on his
     back, snoring gently, a polite and controlled sound, as though even in his sleep he made a point of not disturbing her.
    Connie’s hand crept closer to his on the sheet. She held her breath until the space between them was less than the width of
     her little finger, and she could feel the springy hairs on the back of his wrist tickling her skin. It was a faint, feathery
     touch that she allowed herself once each night while he slept, stealing it in the darkness. Like a thief. Outside, beyond
     the extensive lawns and the scented hibiscus, the jungle was stamping its feet, making itself heard as it took possession
     of the night. The endless chirruping and croaking, the humming and the cackling, the echoing sobs and booming barks, all seeped
     into the room, soaking into her sweat and into the clammy folds of the sheet that twined around her legs.
    Tonight she didn’t resent the sounds because tonight she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to retrace, second by second, those
     vital moments in Palur when her car and her life slid out of control.
    If she had not taken the corner so fast …
    If the black car had not been so greedy …
    If she had fought harder, braked quicker …
    If she hadn’t broken her sunglasses or arranged to meet Harriet for a swim …
    Was this a punishment? Was that it?
    She shook her head on the damp pillow, strands of her restless blond hair grasping at her throat like tentacles. Her mind
     replayed each image relentlessly again and again; the slippery feel of the